


Songs of Deliverance

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Merlin's Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2181216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In desperate times and foul weather, a group of grim-faced travellers arrive at a quiet inn in Albion’s far-flung outer reaches. They seek one who wishes to remain hidden - one who left Camelot under a cloud, and at great personal cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songs of Deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the tavern-tales prompt: Coffee-Shops, Restaurants, Kitchens over on LJ. 
> 
> Enormous thanks to the lovely Tari_Sue for the thorough beta and fantastic ideas.

 

> Thou  _art_  my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance.
> 
> ~ Psalm 32:7
> 
> ~

Sefa runs out of the tavern, calling to Daegal for aid with the horses, and wondering what could bring such a large group of travellers to this out-of-the-way spot so late, and on such a turbulent evening. Merchants, perhaps, bring wares to trade. Well, she can’t say that won’t be welcome, but they have taken a risk, in this weather. The roads out here in the wilds teem with bandits; such a dangerous journey would surely be better undertaken in broad daylight, with sunshine to speed them on their way.

“Greetings, kind sirs,” she says in a shy voice. Seeing their weariness, she hovers, uncertain, wanting to aid the man who leads them. But his horse seems unsettled by the lantern she bears. Jittery for a moment, its nostrils flare and it stamps in the pooling water outside the inn. Now that she’s closer, she sees by the wan lantern-light that the horses are no merchants’ steeds, but towering war-horses, and there are no wagons or wares in sight. She takes an involuntary step backwards, wary of heavy hooves and gleaming weapons.

“Is this the house of the Rising Sun?” says the leader, his mount quieting in response to some unspoken command. The others stay strangely silent, bar the jangle of their horses’ bridles.

“Ay, sirs,” she says. “Will you stop here a while? It is late, but we can offer you humble fare, and a bed for the night, if such is what you seek. It’s warm and dry inside, and my master always keeps a stew on the hearth.”

Smoothly, the leader dismounts from his horse, which harrumphs, its breath condensing in the cool night air. “Indeed it is what we seek, amongst other things,” he says, gathering his reins and patting his horse’s nose. His hair gleams, damp and golden in the flickering lantern light.

“What other things might they be, kind sir?”

“We can talk of those later.” His face looks gaunt and strained, cheekbones hollow, jaw set.

“I’m so sorry, sir! You must be tired!” Sefa says, remembering herself. “There are no short journeys to the house of the Rising Sun. Allow us to help you. Ah, Daegal, here you are at last. Help with the horses, and quick! Before the darkness falls in earnest.” The five great steeds, whose flanks glisten with mingled sweat and rain, will need rubbing down and feeding, not to mention the shelter offered by the inn’s modest stables.

The four other men dismount. The tallest man detaches himself from the group and stalks, grim-faced, towards the inn, sword unsheathed, in response to a gesture from their leader, while the other three bustle around with Daegal, seeing to the horses.

The leader follows, with Sefa chattering at his heels.

“We don’t often see strangers in these parts at this time of night, sir” she says. “The bar is quite empty, and you are in luck, for there is but one traveller here, tonight, and he has already retired. We have two beds to spare. If the others among you do not mind taking the floor, we can put down pallets and blankets for them. The fires are lit. We can offer you some merriment, of a sort, for my master will be pleased to exchange news of the road with you; he is a fine musician, and can sing for you, and play the lute.”

The leader pauses at the door, his eyes in shadow, the line of his jaw tense. “That will not be necessary.” His voice brooks no argument. “We wish to remain quiet. But news will be welcome. News of the one we seek, doubly so.”

“And whom do you seek, good sir?” she says, curious what brings such important-seeming men to this obscure spot.

At that point the tall, grim-faced man emerges, nodding, and she cannot hear the leader’s reply, as he presses open the creaking, dark, oak door, boots slapping the wet flagstones.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Now that the light is stronger, she can see his proud bearing, a man accustomed to command, she thinks. She realises he wears chain mail beneath his sodden travel cloak, and a sword hilt protrudes from his waist. His evident exhaustion does not hide his bold, handsome features, nor the startling blue of his eyes.

“Emrys,” he says. “I seek the one who is called Emrys.”

“I do not know this person,” she says, pursing her lips. “My master is in the village with a sick friend, but it is late. He will return soon. Maybe he can help you. He is very wise.”

“Then I thank you…?” His eyebrows rise in question.

“Sefa, sir.” Not sure why, she bobs him a curtsey. “If you and your… your… your companions… would care to make yourselves comfortable, I will bring you some restoring food. My! It is nice to have some new faces in the inn. Why, the local people are fine, and all, but they do get a little hidebound, and set in their ways—”

“Thank you Sefa,” he says, the merest hint of a twinkle in his eye. “That will be all for now.”

“Of course. Would you like me to bring you mead as well? My master brews it himself. He brews the finest mead in all the east of Albion, finer even than in Camelot itself! Fancy—”

“If you wouldn’t mind showing me to our room,” interrupts the man.

“Of course. Silly me, don’t let me chatter on, so. Follow me!”

Later on, when the men are all dry and sitting around in the public bar in front of the steeply banked fire, she brings out bowls of stew, and flagons of mead, and tries not to worry too much about her master, who often stays out late with his sick friend in the village. But it’s difficult. Rain drills against the roof and the tiny window panes, drops occasionally hitting the fire with a hiss. The wind moans and sucks, wailing around the walls of the inn like a wraith.

When her master finally steps in through the door, a gust sweeps through the room before him, as if clearing a path. His cloak is drawn closely around him, like a veil, his shoulders hunched around his ears.

The five men turn, as one, when he enters, and Sefa sees his body start when he takes in the scene. It seems almost to Sefa as if he staggers back a step, and then she is dimly aware of a faint flash of gold beneath his hood before he casts it back. When his face is uncovered, she sees that he has cast a glamour across his features, so that they swim and reassemble to form something new, a more ordinary, rounder face, one that is subtly different from his normal, sharply-defined features.

She hurries to him, taking his cloak and scolding him. “Master! You’ll catch your death, out there in this weather. I nearly sent Daegal to find you, but could not in all conscience make the boy go out. You’re soaked through. You’ll be no good to those sick villagers if you catch a bad humour yourself, you know!”

“Hush, Sefa,” he says, his voice deeper than usual, disguised like his face. Not for the first time, it seems that he wishes to avoid being seen and heard. “We have guests.”

“Ay, Master,” she says, fussing at his cloak, taking his bag of essential herbs and poultices, and placing them behind the bar.

Meanwhile, the leader of the little group of travellers rises, and steps slowly forward into the light. The two men regard each other, warily, wide-stanced, as if gauging each other’s strengths before a wrestling bout. Perhaps sensing the tension, the rest of the travellers fall silent.

The hissing fire cracks, suddenly, making Sefa jump.

“You are a long way from home, Prince Arthur,” says her master, softly. “What news of Camelot?” Abruptly, he reaches out with one hand, which the other man stares at for a moment, before grasping and shaking it.

“It has taken me a long time to find you. Whoever you are?”

“You can call me Arius, Your Highness.”

The prince, for it is he, Sefa is sure of it, swallows. “Your news is old, Master Arius” he says. “For I am Prince Arthur no longer. My father is dead; I am King, now.”

Her master drops his gaze and bows his knee. “Your Majesty,” he says, almost whispering. “I am sorry for your grave loss.”

Arthur nods. “Grave, indeed,” he says. “The sickness that took him was ugly indeed. But come, stand, I have no authority here.”

Her master straightens, and they stare at one another for a moment, her master a thumb’s width taller, but Arthur, somehow, a more commanding presence.

“So, what brings the King of Camelot to this far-flung land?” says her master, at last, moistening his lips as if nervous.

“I seek someone I sorely miss, for war is coming and the land grows lawless. I would have him at my side on a perilous quest. I seek the warlock, Emrys, and at last rumour has brought me here. I have heard that you have his ear.”

Her master hums noncommittally. “Perhaps this Emrys does not wish to be found.”

“So you do know of his whereabouts?”

“That is not what I said.”

The king’s eyes rake her master’s form, as if seeking answers in the contours of his face, and a puzzled line appears between his brows. “There’s something about you, Master Arius,” he says, stepping forward until barely a hand’s span separates the two men. “Something that I have not felt since…” his voice tails off, but his contemplative gaze does not.

It’s her master who is the first to look away. “Right,” he says, sounding strangely hoarse, and stepping abruptly away to the bar. “Well, kindly excuse me.” When he fumbles with the clasp that lifts the hatch to gain entry to the bar; to her shock, Sefa sees that his hand trembles, violently, like the palsy of age that has settled on his ancient friend, the physician.

“We parted on bad terms, I know. But tell him,” says the king, stepping forward as if pressing home his advantage, “please. Just… tell him… Master Arius, if such is your name... things are different, now.” He is soft spoken, but his voice holds a hidden power.

Her master is shaking his head when he steps through the hatch, shoving violently at the door into the kitchens. “Bad terms,” she can hear him say, muttering under his breath. “Bad terms. Is that what you call it?” The door slams loudly behind him, rattling the loose casements and swaying the tankards lined up in hooks above the bar.

Sefa has never seen her master so rattled. She cannot be discourteous, not to noblemen, so instead she expresses her disdain through carelessly handled crockery, spilt mead, pressed lips and narrow-eyed glares. When no-one’s looking she mutters a simple charm, and then smiles to herself when one of the men drops his tankard, cursing.

Arthur remains standing, alternating between glaring at the door, as if he can summon Sefa’s master back by the power of his thought alone, and pacing impatiently on the smooth stone flags.

After a while one of his companions approaches her for more mead, adopting the easy swagger of one who frequents taverns.

“So, Mistress…?”

“Sefa.”

“Mistress Sefa, then. This landlord fellow brews a fine mead. Perhaps another flagon would not go amiss.”

“Take care, Sir…?”

“Sir Gwaine,” he says, with a wink.

“Well, take care then, Sir Gwaine,” she says, smiling at him, because his eyes do twinkle very kindly when he grins. “My master always says a drop is better than a fall.”

“Perhaps you would like a drop yourself, fine Mistress?” he says. “My Lord has coin enough, I’ll warrant.”

She laughs. “Not while I am serving!” She has been entrusted with the bar; she would never abuse that trust.

“Shame,” he says, making his eyes crinkle and sparkle again. “I’m sure you work hard, Mistress Sefa. Your master is a hard man? Impatient and demanding?”

“Indeed he is not,” she says, hotly. “He is kind, and clever, and the most patient teacher.”

“Oh? What, then, does he teach?”

Sefa bites her lip, and looks down at the foaming mead, her heart beating fast. She has said too much. How often has her master told her to guard her tongue?

“Brewing,” she says, in a tremulous voice, looking up at him through her lashes.

“Brewing. That’s all, is it?”

A strong hand takes the wet tankard from her nerveless fingers. “Peace, Sefa,” her master says. He must have re-entered the room while she was talking with this clever-tongued knight. “Sir Gwaine, I’ll thank you not to fluster my serving maid. She does not have the answers you seek.”

“Aye, such as how you know our names, even though we do not recognise you, Master Arius. And what manner of instruction you might give to an enchantress—”

“Enchantress? She is but a maid of sixteen summers—”

“Aye, and one who can cast a charm on us, making us spill our drinks when your back is turned.”

When her master frowns at her, Sefa feels a heat creeping up her neck and blossoming across her face. Stupid! Stupid, stupid, silly Sefa.

“Sefa is an impetuous maid, she means no harm. And you are knights of Camelot,” her master says, turning back to them, his long fingers splayed in a placating gesture, “your fame precedes you, whereas I am but a humble innkeeper—”

Sir Gwaine’s snort cuts off this self-deprecating statement. “Humble? Somehow I doubt that, Master... Arius,” he says, with a lopsided, upturn of his lips, seeming somehow to convey his scepticism by the tone of his voice, as if he knows that Arius isn’t her master’s real name. “But if your information is half as good as your mead, the Princess’s temper will be greatly improved.”

“That’s enough, Gwaine.” Arthur’s voice is low, and growling. He strides across to the bar, staring hard at Sefa’s master, eyes raking his face, as if it holds some great secret. “Come, sit with us, Master Arius. My companions, as it seems you already know, are knights of Camelot, Sir Gwaine, Sir Leon, Sir Percival and Sir Elyan. We fought and won many battles on our journey here, not least against the foul weather that has blighted the summer. And the more I see of you, the more certain I am that we have come to the right place.”

Sighing, her master directs a terse nod towards Sefa, as if to bid her remain behind the bar. Mopping his hands on the cloth that he keeps at his waist, he opens the hinged counter-top and steps out from behind the bar.

“If I was to be able to find this Emrys,” he says, quietly, “what would you have me say to him?”

At Arthur’s gesture, the tallest of the knights pulls out a chair, and Arthur beckons to her master, indicating that he should sit, before joining him at the table, and gazing upon him.

“I would have you say,” Arthur says at last, “that I need… that Camelot has need of his talents.”

“Perhaps he cares little for Camelot’s needs, your Highness? I am led to believe that there was a time when Camelot was altogether more… violently disposed towards him.”

Arthur’s face is strangely childlike for a second when he swallows and looks away. “I would bid him return,” he says, hoarse. “Not just for Camelot, but for me. For since he… since the enchantment the witches laid upon me… since he healed me, I cannot… I do not… I miss” Voice tailing off, he looks down at the table.

It is a strange thing when a man so proud of bearing, so strong of voice, falls silent, unable to articulate his wishes. Sefa watches, mesmerised, until Arthur swallows and starts speaking again.

“My father was a hard man, Master Arius.” He turns back to her master, eyes swallowed by the shadow of their sockets. “What happened to Emrys was not of my doing. I have searched every corner of the land, but it is clear he does not wish to be found. I do not blame him for this. I will search no longer. I will return to Camelot to pursue my quest without him, if that is what he desires. But before I do that, I would ask him, in the name of the friendship we once shared, if he might hear me. He has my word of honour that neither I, nor my companions, wish him, nor the one he protects, any harm. We merely wish to parley with him. Do you think that he will agree to that?”

Her master looks troubled, but nods. “I think he might,” he says. “Let him think on it.”

“Good.” Arthur sighs, wearily, and slowly pushes himself to his feet. “Then, I bid you good night. We must rest.” He nods to the rest of his group, who start to rise. One, the tallest, yawns and stretches.

“Wait!” Her master catches Arthur’s arm. “Wait! What is the nature of your quest?”

Arthur shakes his hand off with a frown. “The witches,” he says, finally. “War is brewing, and the witches are stirring up mischief, again. I wish to stop them, without bloodshed if possible. Tell him…” he looks away, pressing his lips together, as if finding the words. “Tell him that they must be stopped. After all, they started it all….”

~

_Ah, friendship. Merlin remembers a time, long ago, lost in the far distant past, when they were friends, tied by bonds of companionship and mutual understanding._

_“How can you lose a sword, Merlin? Surely even you would notice it when something that big was missing.” Arthur has been berating him for this incident all day, and has brought his second sword along for this hunt._

_“It just disappeared, Sire. I turned my back, and there it was, gone! One of the other knights must have taken it by mistake.”_

_“You really are hopeless, sometimes.” Arthur’s been going on and on about his bloody sword for ages, and it’s really not Merlin’s fault, but try telling the prat that. “I’ve been thinking.”_

_“I thought I could hear the gnash of teeth!”_

_Arthur cuffs him soundly. “Insolent boy!”_

_“Ow!” Rubbing his head in mock hurt, but grinning to himself, because if Arthur’ cuffing him, it means he’s ready to forgive the mysterious loss of the sword. Merlin shoulders the two hares, strung together with twine, and slings them across the horse’s back. “Can we go back now? It’s just that I promised Gaius I’d be back by full moon, to help collect mistletoe.”_

_“Merlin, we have been travelling for two hours. Full moon is a week away! We have barely left Camelot. Stop complaining. Honestly, you are such a child, sometimes!”_

_“_ I’m _like a child? At least I don’t throw grass seeds at your head and then run off, laughing, unlike some people I could mention.”_

_“You needed cheering up.”_

_“Funny way of cheering me up, getting grass in my eye!”_

_“It’s your fault for losing my sword.”_

_“It was a rubbish sword. I’ll make you a better one.”_

_“What with, Merlin? You don’t have two pennies to rub together.”_

_“You’ll see! One day I will make you the best sword that Camelot has ever seen.”_

_“That’s all very well, but it does not solve our immediate problem.”_

_“Sorry, Sire.” Merlin can be contrite when it is required._

_They carry on down the path for a few hundred yards, bickering amicably all the while, unsuspecting of the enchantment that the witches are calling down upon them, even while they ride to their doom._

_He sees it, of course, much later. Sees it, in his scrying bowl. Sees it, after the prince, oblivious, drinks the wine Morgana has given him. Sees the witches, two of them, sisters, hunching over their potion, muttering an incantation, eyes aglow._

 

 

> _“Earth, I give you the blood of a prince - give me his soul_
> 
> _Earth, I bring you the sword of a prince - shatter his mind_
> 
> _Earth, I bring you the tears of two virgins, brought forth in magick and bitterness_
> 
> _He shall be an empty vessel, bare, waiting to be filled_
> 
> _Only magick can save him and the land”_

_He hears their eerie, whispered, mingling voices, sees the mandragora and henbane added to the mixture._

_The surface of the scrying bowl ripples, obscuring their faces, but he knows them, oh yes._

_“Sister, are you sure of this enchantment?” says Morgause._

_“Sister, I know Uther as you do not,” says Morgana. “He will seek the help of Emrys. Emrys will have no choice but to reveal himself. And once he does, Uther will destroy him. Our way will be clear.”_

_“Drink it, he must, sister.”_

_“Drink it, he shall, sister.”_

_Drink it, he does, thanking the woman who betrays him with a smile._

_There’s nothing Merlin can do to stop it. Nothing._

 

~

The next morning, when Arthur enters the public room of the inn, it seems empty at first; Master Arius, if such is his name, is not there, and neither is the girl.

Arthur keeps quiet about suspicions regarding Master Arius. A man is entitled to his secrets, and after coming so far, Arthur has no desire to drive him away before they have had a chance to talk.

He and his knights gather, in the public bar, thinking that they’re alone, and it’s only when he has sent Percival and Elyan to check on the horses that he hears a quiet cough from a dark corner, and realises they’re being watched. He spins round, scrabbling at his belt for his knife, but the figure that detaches itself from the shadows lifts a hand, and his knife spins away, clattering to the floor.

“Your knife is not needed here, Arthur,” says a familiar voice from under the hood of an ink-black cloak, a voice so sorely missed that Arthur’s treacherous heart starts to pound. When he pulls back his hood, revealing Merlin’s well-beloved features, Arthur is temporarily robbed of speech. Merlin’s face is calm, but surely his heart must be racing; the circumstances of their last meeting cannot have escaped his mind. At the memory a deep, shameful blush creeps up Arthur’s neck.

He stills, frozen in place, torn between the desire to embrace his old friend, and a natural wariness that settles upon him. They did not part on good terms. He must tread carefully here.

Licking his lips, Arthur nods. “Thank you,” he says at last. “You look well, Merlin. Come, sit with us. Please.” He looks up at Leon, who drags out a chair.

Merlin walks over, his even footfalls light and quick across the cold flagstones. His face is still grave, his gaze flinty and accusing. “I heard that you wish to parley, Your Majesty,” he says. He looks nervous, poised to flee. “Be quick, for I have important duties and cares.”

Arthur nods. He can guess what those might be. “What news of Gaius?” he says, softly, straight to the point.

Merlin’s eyes narrow, and glint dangerously in the pale daylight that streams in through the narrow window slit. “He grows old, and weary,” he says. “He misses his home. What do you expect? It has not been easy on him.”

“I am sorry,” says Arthur.

“Sorry?” Merlin’s voice rises. He never was one to hold back when irked. “You are sorry? What your father did to me was… well, it was with my consent. But what you did to Gaius? That was unforgivable.”

~

_Long ago, and far away._

_Merlin smoothes the bedclothes in Arthur’s chambers, and tries not to worry about the grey tinge to Arthur’s face, the way he rests his head on his hands when he thinks no-one is looking. The illness came upon Arthur quite quickly, and seemed to go just as fast, but has left him weakened and surly._

_Even Gaius does not know what has caused it._

_“The vomiting and diarrhoea could be caused by some sort of a flux, Sire,” he is saying. “But the hallucinations and seizures are not a common symptom, and it is suspicious that no-one else has fallen sick. I fear you may have taken poison, or worse, that you are afflicted by a curse. I would rather you stayed in Camelot where I can keep an eye on you until we can diagnose the source of this ailment.”_

_“I must go, Gaius. My father would expect it. I cannot show any weakness while he is absent.”_

_Merlin is sure that he is right, but equally sure that Arthur should stay._

_Later, when Gaius has gone, Merlin tries to persuade him. “Sire. You need to be fully recovered – send one of your trusted knights.” But Merlin’s pleas fall on deaf ears._

_“I am perfectly all right, Merlin,” Arthur frowns, exuding irritation from every pore. “Stop clucking around me like an old hen.”_

_He tries another tack. “It’s your duty, Arthur. The King is away; you cannot, in all conscience, leave Camelot unguarded—”_

_“Unguarded against what, Merlin?  The threat, such as it is, seems to be coming from the cursed village.” Arthur rubs a frustrated hand across his forehead. “Enough. My duty lies there. Sir Leon is perfectly capable of taking care of Camelot.”_

_“As you wish, Sire.” There’s no point arguing with Arthur when he’s out to prove a point, like this. And perhaps he has genuinely recovered?_

_But the next day, when they ride out to the village, to investigate the impact of this alleged curse on its hapless inhabitants, it’s clear from the way that Arthur’s forehead creases as he rides that he’s feeling far from recovered, and, not for the first time, Merlin finds himself muttering under his breath about stubborn, royal prats, to disguise his concern._

_The village itself is silent, and deserted; they search it carefully, but can find no living soul. But the hearth in one hovel is warm. Its fireplace still stinks of wood smoke. Cautiously Merlin reaches out with his senses; there is a warm presence there, hidden from view, in the corner of the room. And surely that’s a rasping breath that he hears?_

_Abruptly, he spins about, grasping some rags, and pulling them away to reveal an ancient woman, crouching beneath them and looking up at him, her eyes filled with fear._

_“Arthur!” he calls out to his prince, who strides over._

_“Who are you? What has happened here?” he says, kneeling by her side. She appears injured, her breathing is laboured. “Where are the villagers?”_

_“They are all either dead or gone, Arthur Pendragon. And wise they are, to go, to escape the cursed flux. But I see that you have fallen foul of another curse, one far worse than the flux that has robbed this village of its life.” She coughs, the sound rattling in her lungs, and Merlin knows in his bones that she will not live long. “Alas, that the young should fight each other. Alas for Camelot’s doom.”_

_“What do you mean? Of what curse do you speak? But, wait, you are injured. Can we first see to your wounds? My manservant has some skill in such matters.”_

_She turns towards the light that filters in through the broken doorway, and with a shock, Merlin realises that her eyes are riddled with cataracts. She must be near blind. “Alas, it is only my great age that wounds me, and for that there is no cure,” she says, reaching out with a bony hand to touch Merlin’s face._

_With a start, Merlin jerks his head away, but she grasps his hand in bony, claw-like fingers. She smiles then, revealing her gums, and turns back to Arthur._

_“I sense the curse that lies upon you, Arthur Pendragon,” she says. “I have druid blood. I have the Sight. Feeble though I am, at the end of my days, I sense that the veil between the worlds is thinning around you. You are strong, but even as we speak it weakens you further. But for you there is hope, Arthur Pendragon. Your destiny approaches. You must seek help from Emrys before it is too late.”_

_Merlin stares at her. Emrys is the name that the druids use for him. What does this seer know of his destiny?_

_“Emrys is the greatest and most powerful sorcerer in the land. Only by being filled with his essence can your curse be lifted, Arthur. With the Beltane dew on his fingers and your spirit joined with his upon your loins, then, in your conjoining, can he heal you with his spirit and his magick.”_

_“I do not know what you mean,” says Arthur. “Who is this Emrys? What manner of magick is this? Magick is forbidden in Camelot, you must know that.”_

_But Merlin knows. When Merlin realises what she is suggesting, his spine crawls and his skin blooms with heat. He backs away, torn between horror and a secret, burning desire that nags at him, a white-hot nugget of certainty that flares in his gut, but can never be acknowledged. Unable to look at Arthur, he stands, with his back to them, and listens, despairing, hands in his hair._

_“Prince Arthur,” she is saying. Her breath and voice become fainter, as if she is speaking through a veil. “My time is near. A curse lies on the land, and on you. The lady Morgana has… has,” her voice disappears into a fit of coughing. Remembering his manners, Merlin hastily steps back to her, and, kneeling, touches his wineskin to her grey, chapped lips. Her pale, sightless eyes moisten a little, as if in gratitude, and she speaks again. “She has betrayed you. Darkness comes. You must seek Emrys, or the Pendragon line will surely end, and the land will wither…” her eyelids droop and her lips part as she inhales, a final, rattling breath that whistles and fades._

_Gently, Arthur covers her face with the rags. “She has passed. Let the madwoman be given a decent funeral,” he says. “She was brave, though deranged.” He strides out of the hovel, issuing commands as if nothing is amiss._

_But Merlin sees Arthur’s anxious, pained expression, and knows that it’s all a front, that Arthur is worried. Merlin tends to the elderly seer’s frail body, his gut knotting as he tries to puzzle out the riddle. What curse can Morgana have brought upon Arthur? Secretly, Merlin vows to confront her when they return to Camelot. He has had enough of skulking, of staying in the shadows while those he loves are hurt and betrayed. He will stand over her, power revealed, and demand an answer._

_Thus resolved, he turns back to his duties with renewed purpose._

_But when they return to Camelot, just as the light is softening and fading into dusk, alarm bells are clanging and the townsfolk scurry hither and thither. As their party clatter into the open area before the keep, a herald flies down the steps of the citadel to greet them with grim news. “Prince Arthur!” he says, his hand on Arthur’s bridle. “My Lord Leon sends me, he needs you to speak with him at once. The lady Morgana is gone. We have searched the citadel and keep but she has vanished, taking nothing with her.”_

_Arthur’s face is pale and tense as he dismounts, sliding to the ground with less than the usual grace, as if exhausted, and while Merlin watches his legs seem to crumple and sag beneath him. Merlin, filled with alarm, hurries to his side and, lowering him gently to the floor, sees Arthur’s eyes turn up under his lids, feels his shoulders start to tremor and judder._

_“Fetch Gaius!” he says, trying not to let panic flood his voice. “Quickly! The prince is unwell!” Carefully, he turns the shaking prince onto his side, checking his pulse and swirling a finger inside Arthur’s slack mouth to check that his breathing is not obstructed._

_Spurred into action by his words, the heralds and knights scatter, leaving Merlin alone with Arthur for a moment._

_“Come back to me, you stubborn, obstinate, prat,” says Merlin, sweeping a lock of damp hair out of Arthur’s eyes. “You’re not done yet.” His eyes blur but he won’t let his voice shake. “Come back to me. Come on, Arthur. Don’t leave me now!”_

_He raises a silent prayer of thanks when, after a few moments, the seizure passes, and Arthur stares back at him, eyes clouded with pain, but lucid. Merlin gives him a few drops from his wineskin. Where is Gaius?_

_“What’s happening to me, Merlin?” Arthur says, voice sounding hoarse and guttural. “Am I dying?”_

_“No, no, Sire,” Merlin says, heart in his mouth. “You’ve been ill, that’s all; you just need more rest.” Merlin only wishes that this were true. “You’ll be throwing goblets at me again in no time.”_

_He takes Arthur’s weak smile and treasures it, in case._

~

“I disagree. It was necessary.”

“Necessary?” Merlin’s voice is a roar; his fist smashes down onto the table in emphasis, so that Arthur winces. “You arrogant, unfeeling, pompous, entitled prat! It was NOT! NECESSARY! Gaius has been the most loyal, wisest…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Leon and Gwaine sidling towards the door.

“Um, we’ll just…” says Leon.

Gwaine adds, “Yes, I think we’ll…”

Sighing, Arthur nods and waves them absently out. “Merlin.” Arthur needs to stop this bitter tirade, needs to explain. “Merlin!”

But Merlin’s in full flow. “How many times has he saved you, and your ungrateful family, Your Majesty? And how do you reward him? How dare you talk about necessity? Necessary, my arse!”

“Merlin!”

Merlin struggles to his feet as if to leave. “And then you have the cheek to ask after him! I don’t know why I ever agreed to this!”

“ _Merlin_!” Arthur has to bellow to make himself heard. Fighting his own rising anger, Arthur grabs Merlin’s wrist and tugs it. “Sit down! And will you just _listen_ for a moment?”

“But you promised!” Still glaring at him, accusingly, Merlin nonetheless sits, a sulky air about him that makes Arthur’s throat catch for a second, because it’s an expression that Arthur misses with all his heart. In that moment, Arthur forgets his temper. “You promised not to let him come to any harm!”

“Has he come to any harm?”

“Well, no, but no thanks to you!”

“And what of you, Merlin? Are you forgetting that you lied to me, for years. You lied, and lied, and lied. I have never lied to you. Not once. And if I say that something was necessary, you can be sure that it was!”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says at last, eyes round and bright. “Everything I did, everything was for you, Arthur. Only for you… I am sorry I lied. I am sorry with all my heart that I… I lied to you, about my magick. I didn’t want to. Please believe me when I say that.”

“How do I know that you’re not lying now?” As a king, sometimes Arthur has to press people to say things that pain them, has to probe and needle them, and hide the way that it breaks his heart. He schools his features now, against the stricken look that slackens Merlin’s jaw and makes his lips tremble.

“I don’t know,” says Merlin, swallowing, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know. And I’m sorry that… I’m sorry if you feel you cannot trust me any more… I know that… that my punishment was justified, Arthur. I accepted that. I was willing to… But I don’t see why Gaius…”

“I will explain.”

~

_But the seizures do not diminish. As the Spring marches on, and Beltane approaches, Uther Pendragon returns home. Distracted as he is by his wrath and his worry over his missing ward and his weakening son, surely even he cannot fail to see that, even as Arthur weakens, the rain churns up the fields and the forests, blossom on the trees shrivels with blight, and the crops struggle to germinate. The land withers, accursed._

_Sometimes, Arthur sleeps so soundly after a seizure that Merlin worries that he will never wake up.  At other times, Arthur sits, bolt upright and staring, screaming as if at some nameless creature that stalks him, and Merlin has to administer a draft to calm him. He is not sure which is worse._

_Uther has taken to sitting by Arthur’s side, staring glumly into his face._

_Arthur sleeps, now, a sleep of sorts, his face grey and covered with a moist sheen of sweat, his breathing irregular and his pulse uneven. He looks like he might not last the night. Merlin’s heart clenches at the thought, and he bites on his thumbnail to hide his anxiety._

_When Gaius enters, Uther stands, the strain evident on his face. “Gaius, tell me again what you think the words of the evil seer mean.”_

_“Sire,” Merlin can’t help blurting, “she was not evil, I…”_

_“Silence, boy, or I will have you whipped for your insubordinate behaviour. The witch was magical, and so, by definition, evil.”_

_“Sire!” says Gaius, frowning and waggling his eyebrow at Merlin, who slinks back into the background. “Sire, I believe that the seer was trying to warn Arthur that he must contact the powerful warlock whom the druids call Emrys.”_

_“Is there any truth in her claim?”_

_“I believe so, Sire. I have unearthed texts that describe an ancient curse…”_

_“And what then?”_

_“Her speech was very clear, Sire. It seems that Emrys and Arthur must lie together, and in their coupling so they will lift the curse both on Arthur and on the land itself. It is interesting, many prophecies link their names together. It seems that they are destined to be bonded in some way…”_

_“My son will not be bonded to some sorcerer, and I do not wish to be beholden to one,” snaps Uther, standing to gaze out of the window, hands on his hips, shoulders set wide with frustration. “However, our hands have been forced. Can you contact this Emrys?”_

_Gaius darts Merlin a nervous look. “Erm… I believe I may be able to, with a little time, Sire.”_

_“Do you think that he might be inclined to help us?”_

_“Perhaps with the right persuasion, he could….”_

_“Then do so.” Uther sighs. “Promise him whatever you think he desires. Maybe we can trick this evil sorcerer into helping us, and in so doing, root out this poison of magick and expel it from the land. See to it, Gaius._

_“Aye, Sire.”_

_Gaius bows, and takes his leave, but not before exchanging a despairing glance with Merlin._

~

“Master?”

“Sefa! You made me jump!” Angry at relaxing his own vigilance, Merlin speaks sharply, making Sefa flinch. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hush, Sefa. I did not mean to scold you. Come, let me see you. Are you well, this morning?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the table, and Merlin glances up, to see an irritatingly smug expression flit across Arthur’s face. 

Sefa curtseys, and moves off behind the bar, pulling out a cloth from her apron pocket, and flashing curious and not altogether friendly looks at Arthur all the while. “I heard shouting,” she says. “I was worried. Is all well, Master?”

When Merlin turns to Arthur, he almost jumps at the intensity of that icy, blue stare, honed over years of presiding at council. Merlin’s pulse surges and races under his skin. Feeling the challenge in Arthur’s veiled, hooded expression, he nods.

“All is well, Sefa,” he says, waving towards the door, in clear dismissal. “Will you leave us please?”

He senses that her hesitation is born of an innate protectiveness, but his impatience makes his tone unnaturally sharp again. “Now, Sefa,” he says, allowing a tone of command to creep into his voice, and with an impatient tut, she hurls her cloth onto the bar and flounces into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

“So, Merlin,” purrs Arthur, one side of his mouth sliding up in a mocking grin, an expression of such utmost familiarity that it makes Merlin’s breath catch for a moment, for he has forgotten it, or perhaps has quashed it, thinking he should never see it again. “Or should I say Master Arius? For it seems that the serving wench cannot see any difference between you. Sorcerer, bartender... what a versatile man you have become.”

“I have always had many talents,” he manages to say, although his heart clenches in response to Arthur’s boyish grin, something so dear and so, so lost. “But come, tell me more. Why did you denounce Gaius, Arthur? For I wish to find it in my heart to forgive you, and to forgive myself, for what happened, but I fear I can not.”

Never one to shy away from difficulties, Arthur nods, his gaze fierce and adamantine. “We must speak of these things,” he says. “But they must never leave this room.” He holds out a hand.

“Aye, you have my word on it,” says Merlin, reaching forward to grasp it, and trying to ignore the way his magick surges ecstatically through him at the contact, a deep upwelling of joy and belonging.

Seeing Arthur’s eyes widen and his jaw tense, he senses that Arthur feels it too.

~

_Later, in Gaius’s chambers, their mood is low._

_“Is this really the only way?” Merlin cannot help the note of panic that creeps into his voice. To lie with Arthur in such a way is a secret fantasy of his, but the thought of doing so like this, under duress and obligation, torments him and fills him with shame. He clutches his head and stands, facing away from Gaius for fear of revealing the tears that start in his eyes._

_“Alas, Merlin, I fear we have no choice. You must fill Arthur with your spirit. The auguries state that it must be done on Beltane morning, with the Beltane dew upon your hands. But beware, Uther plans to betray you.”_

_“I know that. I am not afraid of Uther. But I fear what… what will this do to Arthur? It will destroy….” It will destroy everything, their friendship and mutual trust will turn to ashes, and all Merlin’s love will drive Arthur to naught but hate. Merlin slumps onto a hard chair, wondering what he must have done to anger the gods, so, that they should offer him his heart’s desire with one breath, and snatch it from him the next._

_Gaius’s bony hand is warm on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, my boy,” he says, and Merlin can tell from his voice that he understands more than he’s saying._

_“I will do it,” whispers Merlin. He stares up at Gaius, and tries not to let his anguish show in his face. “I will do it, for him. But I don’t know how I’m going to tell him….” He draws in a shaky breath._

_It will be the end of him, he thinks, resigning himself to his fate._

_~_

At that moment that he realises that they are still not alone. Merlin’s magick, unquiet at Arthur’s touch, directs his awareness to listening ears at the door, and he grins. Drawing the magick into himself, he allows it to augment his sense of hearing for a moment, long enough to hear a muffled shushing noise.

Striding across the empty room, he wrests the door open.

“Sir Gwaine, Sir Leon,” he calls out, grin widening as the two knights stumble backwards with a clatter. "Good of you to return from your mission so swiftly!"

“Our mission?” Gwaine’s face is a picture of innocent enquiry.

“Aye,” growls Arthur, still seated, his voice amused but laced with threat. “You thrice cursed, prying jackanapes! Get thee hence!”

“Does this mean we trust Merlin, now, then?” Perhaps Gwaine has not noticed how Arthur’s eyes narrow, but he ducks just in time to avoid the heavy pewter tankard that’s hurled at his head.

“Right you are, Sire!” he says, brightly, as the two knights back away through the outer door.

Slamming the inner door shut, Merlin returns to the table. “Enough interruptions,” he says, waving a vague hand around the room to ward off any further curious incomers. Hearing Arthur’s rapid intake of breath, he knows that his eyes must have flashed golden. “The time for secrets between us is past, Arthur.”

“I agree,” says Arthur. He cannot be without anxiety, Merlin thinks, but his expression betrays no tension, his relaxed voice and demeanour a measure of the king that he has become.

_~_

_When Beltane comes, this year, the fires are few and the people subdued. The blight that lies on the land is deepening; the crops are not rising as they should, and the cattle are gaunt and skeletal. King Uther Pendragon sits on his throne and broods._

_“My personal guards will seize this Emrys when the rite is finished, Gaius,” he says. “You will tell no-one of it.”_

_“As you wish, Sire.”_

_“He shall be cast into the deepest dungeons, and executed at noon. You!” He glares directly at Merlin, who sucks in a shaky breath. “Merlin. You will take care of my son. And you will say nothing of this. On pain of death.”_

_“It shall be as you say, Sire. You have my word.” Merlin’s voice is hoarse and trembling, but Uther nods._

_~_

_Arthur thinks he is dying._

_Some sort of waking dream holds him, one in which Morgana stands over Merlin, sword poised, a look of triumph upon her face. Arthur goes to attack her, desperate, but finds himself unable to move, caught at the shoulder. He struggles, this way and that, fighting the cords that bind him, but they are too strong, and he falls, helpless to the floor, thrashing about._

_“Arthur!”_

_“Shut up Merlin! She will kill you, can’t you see?” Not cords, no, they’re Merlin’s sinewy fingers. He has to let Arthur go! “She will get away! Let me go!”_

_“She’s not here, Arthur. Hush, now! Come back to your bed!”_

_But a moment or two later he comes to himself. He’s on the floor of his chambers, panting with exertion, arms pinned to his side by Merlin’s hands, and Merlin is staring at him with great tears starting in his eyes. “Arthur, stop! You have to stop!”_

_Arthur’s struggles cease, and he stares up at Merlin, who releases him from his grip, and dashes at his eyes with the back of his hands. “Merlin?”_

_“Come, Sire,” Merlin’s voice cracks; he always was a sentimental idiot. He has been greatly agitated for some weeks, now. Sometimes, during his illness, Arthur has found himself trying to calm Merlin, which is ridiculous, because it is not Merlin who is ill. “Come, let me get you ready. It is Beltane, the healer is coming.”_

_Ah, yes, that’s right. Arthur lets himself be manhandled back onto the bed, and lies, unblinking, gazing at the canopy while his scattered thoughts return. The healer is coming, but the healing will involve a strange form of an ancient magick ritual. Arthur does not fear it, but his apprehension is beginning to build._

_“Am I going to die, Merlin?” he whispers. “I am not afraid, not of death. But dying like this… sick, in my bedchamber… this is not how I want to die!”_

_“No, Sire!” Merlin’s voice is vehement, even as his hands lift away Arthur’s clothes, and return to glide a warm cloth against Arthur’s skin. “You can not die, Arthur! A great destiny lies before you.”_

_Arthur can’t help smiling through his pain. Merlin always has such faith in him._

_“You are a loyal servant,” says Arthur. “And brave.”_

_Merlin stands there, wringing his hands as if assailed by self doubt. “I am not,” he blurts out. “I am afraid, Arthur. I wish I had half your courage. There is something I must tell you, and I find I cannot.”_

_“Come, now, Merlin. If you have been stealing pies from the kitchen again, I’m sure the cook…”_

_“It’s not that!” Merlin’s agitation seems to have grown. He is actually hopping from one foot to the next; his teeth worry constantly at his lower lip. They have faced worse dangers together, what on Earth can be ailing him?_

_“Merlin, you are acting very strangely. Stop jigging about, you make me feel dizzy! What troubles you so?” A sudden suspicion dawns on Arthur, and he laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of it. “Is it… are you jealous?” The way that Merlin’s face darkens, and he stops still, as if stung, staring starkly, makes Arthur’s smile fail. “That’s it, isn’t it? You wish it were you, in the sorcerer’s place.”_

_“That’s not it,” says Merlin, hotly, face streaked with tears. “You utter, utter prat. Don’t you get it? It’s me! I’m the sorcerer! I’m the one who has to… to… defile you. And… and the truth is, it would be no hardship, not for me, for my love for you… you… but it will ruin everything, because… you… you… Uther will have me killed. How can I protect you if I am dead? And you… you will hate me. I can’t wish for anything worse. I wish… It is no burden, to love one such as you, and yet… why did the witches have to make it so? I do not understand what the fates want from me any more.”_

_Although taken aback at this outburst, Arthur can’t help feel sorry for Merlin, who, clearly deranged by Arthur’s recent illness, is making no sense. But something about the absolute anguish and devastation writ large on the boy’s features makes his mocking laughter die on his lips._

_“Come, Merlin,” he says gently instead. “Your devotion to me is commendable, but you are not a sorcerer. I would know if you were a sorcerer! Come, sit with me. Calm yourself.”_

_“I am a sorcerer!” Merlin blurts out. “I am the one the druids call Emrys. I use it only for you, Arthur, always for you! It matters little, now, let me show you.” To Arthur’s horror, he starts incanting in a strange language that Arthur has not heard before. It makes Arthur’s skin crawl, and he finds himself groping about under his pillow for the knife he always keeps there._

_Merlin stretches out his hand, and his eyes flash yellow. All the candles in the room fall dark, as if at his command. But a single flame remains; it rises from Merlin’s outstretched hand, and takes the form of a dragon, the Pendragon coat of arms outlined in sparks and heartbreak._

_Arthur’s mouth drops open, even as Merlin’s eyes return to their normal colour, and Merlin strides to the bed, his chest heaving with exertion._

_“Kill me now, if you wish,” Merlin says, falling to his knees. “Call the guards and they will have me confined. Or, if you will, take me, take my essence as the witches decreed, and kill me afterwards. It matters not to me. I am doomed either way. But I would have you live, Arthur, for Camelot, and for Albion. And, for myself. I would have you live.” Kneeling, prone, waiting for judgment, he looks like the world has ended. His shoulders shake, wracked with emotion._

_For the first time in his short, but eventful life, Arthur has no idea what to do._

_~_

“Will you not sit down?” Arthur wishes Merlin would stop prowling round the room, like a caged animal.

Merlin draws out a chair and sits, but still looks unsettled and fidgety, drilling his fingers on the bare wood table, chewing on his lower lip. He’s staring at his restless hands, but occasionally sends Arthur darting glances that betray his deep unease.

Arthur’s senses feel somehow heightened, here in this warm tavern room; a sharp crack of the fire startles him, and his nostrils flare at the mingled scent of stale mead and wood smoke.

Above everything he tastes a tang in the air, a familiar aroma of lavender, mixed with something indefinable, a sense of belonging, perhaps, that skitters playfully over his skin. It’s something that he does not know that he has missed, his body aches for it, it makes his throat clog with longing, but he cannot name it. When Merlin looks down at him, or draws near, it pours over him, drenching him, this nameless sense, he feels it like a caress that raises all the hairs on his forearms and makes him shiver despite the warmth from the fire.

He sighs, settling back into his chair, stretching weary legs out in front of him. He’s still stiff from the long ride, and fleetingly wishes for a hot bath to sooth his tired legs, but carries on talking instead. “I had no choice, you know.”

Merlin looks up at that, his eyes black and fathomless in the dim tavern light, and bites his lip.

“What do you mean, you had no choice? You were the Crown Prince, you did not need to bring Gaius into… into the situation.” His colour flares, then, and he swallows, looking away.

“Aye, and I kept my promise. As you can see, no harm has come to him,” says Arthur. “How could it, with the most powerful sorcerer in all Albion watching over him?”

“What? No harm has come to him, aye, but that’s no thanks to you, you arrogant, manipulative, devious sod!” Merlin’s eyes have clouded over, and his lips purse together, white with fury. “You always think you know best for everyone, don’t you! You could have killed him!”

“How dare you criticise me for that?” says Arthur, leaping to his feet, stung. “How dare you!” his voice is a roar. “Yes, I protected Gaius. Yes, I knew you would let no harm come to him. Yes, I knew you would protect him. I was fulfilling my vow, and ensuring your safety at the same time. You were the strongest sorcerer in Camelot – in all Albion! Gaius was not safe in Camelot any more, think about it!”

“I don’t believe you…” Spinning round, Merlin leans forward on his knuckles, glaring across the table at Arthur, jaw working. He’s clearly on the edge of embarking upon another rant.

“I said think about it!” yells Arthur, mirroring his stance so that they stand nose to nose, with the table between them. “You never listen, Merlin. You never think! You never credit me with any sense.” He bashes at the table with his fists to emphasise his words, making a harsh thudding sound. “You accuse _me_ of always thinking I know best! Well, that’s a bit hypocritical, coming from _you_ , isn’t it, _Mer_ lin?” In sudden fury, he kicks out at a chair, sending it skittering, noisily, across the rough stone flags. “How many times did you use magick, without thinking to consult me? How many times?”

The harsh rattle of Merlin’s breathing sounds almost like sobbing.

“I never meant to deceive you, Arthur,” he says, and his voice is still shaking, but Arthur doesn’t think it’s with pent-up rage, not any more, but with some other emotion now. “I had no choice.”

Arthur sits heavily, suddenly weary, drawing his hand across his brow. “It seems that you are familiar with how it feels to be robbed of choice, Merlin. So, kindly credit me with some sense when I say that I had none in this matter.”

Merlin sits, too, his face a picture of misery. “It would have been kinder,” he says, “kinder by far, if you had let me die.”

The words pierce Arthur like a thousand swords. But the anguished expression in Merlin’s eyes is worse.

Breathing hard, Arthur allows himself a luxury normally denied to kings: the luxury of an apology.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hoping that his eyes convey his heartfelt sincerity. “So sorry, Merlin, for all that happened to you. But remember this.” He extends sword calloused hands across the table, envelops Merlin’s with them. “The situation was not of my making. I would have you by my side, where you belong, Merlin. Will you not come back to me?”

“Sire—” begins Merlin, but Arthur interrupts him.

“No,” he says. “I ask you, not as a king, who commands it, but as your friend, Arthur, who misses you most sorely, and who most sincerely and fervently desires you to return.”

The room is dim, but Merlin’s eyes shine bright.

_~_

_Standing and stretching, Arthur starts to pace around the room, and the sight would be almost normal, save for the knife in his hand, and the suspicious, hawk-like glare that he pins Merlin with. Gulping, Merlin’s feels his heart pound and his breath coming in great, heavy sobs. He almost hopes that Arthur will kill him now, put him out of his misery._

_“So,” Arthur hisses, finally, pausing in front of Merlin with his dagger pricking Merlin’s neck. “At last the conspiracy is revealed. You are in league with the witches. All magick users are conspiring to take the throne of Camelot.”_

_“No, Sire! I swear it!” Merlin cannot still the tremors that jerk at his hands._

_“You seek to unman me, and in so doing secure the throne for Morgana.” Arthur’s voice is low and steady, and one who did not know him might think him unmoved by the situation. But Merlin, who knows Arthur better than any, hears the nuances that betray Arthur’s disquiet._

_“No!” Merlin’s chest heaves, and he feels a shameful terror, not of death, but of the rejection that surely precedes it. Moistening his lips with his tongue, Merlin looks up at Arthur, has to twist his head to follow him as he resumes his pacing. “That is not true, Sire,” he says. “All that I have done, every time I use my magick, it is to save you, to save Camelot. I would never take what is not mine. The throne is Uther’s, Arthur. And after him, it will be yours. It is written in the stars. My destiny is to protect—”_

_“You lied! You have been lying from the moment you arrived in Camelot. Your deceit knows no limits. You insinuated yourself into my inner circle. You seek to betray me, and my family.”_

_“No! No, Arthur. If I had sought to betray you, would I not have done so long before now? I have saved you so many times, more times than I can remember.” Feeling his eyes blur and his voice shake with the vehemence of his speech, Merlin bows his head and pauses to breathe for a moment, to steady himself, before looking up again as he carries on. “Arthur, I beg you, please listen to me! I understand that my life is forfeit. I am a sorcerer and I am at your mercy. But I swear… I swear… I swear, on my mother’s life, I never meant you any harm.”_

_“Of what value is the oath of one such as you?” Arthur’s mouth is a cold, hard line. Merlin feels the last of his hope vanish._

_Dropping his head, he shrugs. “I could take you apart with a thought,” he says. “But I would never do that, Arthur. What use is such power, if not to work for what is right?”_

_“And this?” With an articulate sweep of his arm, Arthur encompasses with one gesture all the unguents and oils that Merlin placed by the side of his bed. “Do you seek to join with me, in some sick, sorcerer’s parody of the conjugal act? What arcane power will you hold over me then?”_

_“None,” moans Merlin. “None and nothing. I seek your healing, Arthur, that is all.”_

_Stopping his pacing for a moment, Arthur sits, heavily on the bed, suddenly quiet. His breath is coming fast._

_Merlin is still gazing at him pleadingly when he notices Arthur’s pallor, his rapid breathing, the way his eyes start to dilate and unfocus._

_“No,” Arthur whispers, staring, as if rigid with horror, at a spot above Merlin’s head. Merlin turns his head to check, but no-one is there. “No! You shall not have him, Morgana! He is mine!”_

_“Arthur?”_

_With a clatter, Arthur’s dagger falls from slack fingers, and skitters across the rough flagstone floor. As Arthur’s eyes roll back and his body starts to topple, he lets out a wail of pain and despair that chills Merlin to the marrow._

_Surging to his feet, Merlin reaches Arthur just in time to break his fall and lower him, gently, to the bed. Arthur judders so violently that Merlin sits astride him, pinning his powerful legs and arms with his magick, as if to prevent him from falling to the floor, and the fit lasts for so long that Merlin fears it may be his last._

_“Arthur,” he yells, “Arthur! Come back to me!” He can barely see through the anguished tears that blur his vision._

_But Arthur’s body arches up off the bed, nearly dislodging him altogether. Droplets of sweat appear on Arthur’s forehead, and his jaw clenches so that Merlin can see every muscle stand out._

_Relief and gratitude flood his chest when when Arthur’s arms loosen and fall, limp to the bed, and his eyes, bloodshot though they are, flutter open._

_“It seems all my choices are ill,” says Arthur, between harsh gasps. “I choose life, for Camelot, but let it be done quickly. Do it, Merlin. Do it quickly.”_

_Clearly, Arthur finds the idea of lying with him so repugnant that death would appear a more attractive choice. Merlin cannot help the scalding hurt that flashes through his body._

_“I promise to take good care of you Sire,” he says, almost choking on his words._

_Fighting the rising sense of panic and nausea that overwhelm him when Arthur’s eyes cloud over and close again, he pulls Arthur’s nightshirt over his head and reaches for the vial of dew he gathered this Beltane morning, mixed, as it is, with lavender-infused oil._

~

_This scalding pain that shoots through Arthur's skull is like nothing he has known. His eyes close against it, every muscle tense, and he fights to stop himself from crying out. Distantly, he senses a crooning voice, and a faint scent of lavender. The weight of a cool cloth soothes his head, and lessens the discomfort for a moment, making him gasp a little._

_“It’s all right, Arthur” the voice is saying. “I will take care of you. Hush, now.”_

_Warm hands gentle his skin, tracing circles around his temples, and with them comes a strange, floating sensation. The pain eases. Firm fingertips massage his neck and shoulders, turning him slowly onto his side, and then extending his arm and leg forwards onto the soft coverlet. The sensation of warmth builds and radiates down, towards his lower back and buttocks, a tenderness to it that makes his breath hitch. His chest heaves, jarring his neck and he moans with the sudden returning pain in his head._

_“Lie still, Arthur,” admonishes a voice behind him. “I’ll take care of you, didn’t I say?”_

_The oil that coats Merlin’s hands makes them glide smoothly across Arthur’s skin, so that he finds himself slipping into an easy trance, his breathing slowing, marking time with the rhythmic slide of Merlin’s palms. Arthur allows himself to turn a little further, onto his front, his face to one side, feels his undergarments being dragged down, the cool air not unpleasant against his fevered skin._

_“Let me do this, Arthur,” says Merlin, his voice steady and low in Arthur’s ear. “Let me be the one. It’s what I want to do. Just promise me you’ll take care of Gaius, when this is all over. Promise me that.”_

_Arthur can barely hear his own voice, in its whispered murmur of reassurance, above the pounding of his heart. “I will. I promise.”_

_But he can’t think about Gaius, not now. The pain in his head is dimming under Merlin’s ministrations. He hadn’t realised how tense he was, muscles bunching and clenching against the overwhelming agony shooting through his head. Relief floods him as he relaxes and the tightness starts to ebb. He wills his attention to focus on the sweet pressure of Merlin’s fingertips, spiralling against his flanks and rear._

_It’s not as if he hasn’t noticed, over the years, how Merlin watches him when he fights, when he eats, when he takes counsel with his knights. Whatever Arthur does, Merlin is there watching. All the while, Merlin worries at his dark-cherry lips with his teeth, or broods beneath concerned brows. Arthur never sought to question it, really; the devotion of a manservant is but a Prince’s due. But now, thinking back at Merlin’s earlier outburst, he realises that all this time Merlin has been protecting him, casting a cocoon of magick and absolute regard around him._

_A terrible thought suddenly assails him, one that tightens his throat and chest. From tomorrow, that cocoon will be taken from him. Arthur will be cast into a paler, colder world, a world without Merlin. The thought of it chills him, and he shivers. The pain that strikes at him then, piercing his heart, leaving it bleeding and empty, has nothing to do with the curse, and he automatically tamps down his reaction to it, closing his throat and tensing his jaw._

_Warm breath flutters across the skin of his shoulders, rousing him from his reverie. “Relax, Sire,” says Merlin, pressing his mouth to Arthur’s spine. Plush lips drift down towards his tailbone, plump and velvety against Arthur’s skin. Wet, hot trails give way to cool air in its wake that makes his skin tingle._

_Arthur has never felt so cherished, and so alive._

_It hits him, then, with the force of a lightning bolt, that he cannot allow Merlin to die._

~

 

Arthur has always had this uncanny ability to unman Merlin with a lazy flip of his eyes. It’s the fact that he reserves this open, unguarded look for Merlin, as if in utmost trust that Merlin will make the right decision, that takes his breath away and makes him want to follow Arthur to the ends of the earth.

“But surely… I am magick, Arthur.” When he was a child, Merlin’s mother had taught him never to speak of his magick. Even now, after all these years, his words stutter, his mouth fights to remain silent. It’s a struggle to say what he means. Frustrated by his inarticulacy, Merlin bites his lip. “I cannot… for, in Camelot… you had me put in the dungeon!”

“Merlin.” There’s an amused cast to Arthur’s expression now.

“And what about Gaius? And Sefa? How can I leave the inn? I… I…”

“Merlin.” Arthur sighs, a familiar sound that conveys the point that, despite Merlin’s many idiotic qualities, Arthur will still be patient with him. Merlin is helpless before that sound. “Magick is not outlawed, you will all be welcome. And I… I have need of you.”

The eyes, again. Merlin doesn’t even think Arthur knows he’s doing it. The softer and more vulnerable they appear, the more they melt away Merlin’s resistance.  Even though he knows Arthur’s mercurial temperament of old, knows that his eyes can be earnest in one moment, and switch to gleefully mocking within the next, yet, still, Merlin does not think he could deny Arthur anything, not in moments such as these. 

And on top of this weakness Merlin has, he can see that Arthur has grown into greatness since his abrupt departure from Camelot. He has always been strong and decisive, but now there is weariness about him, which lends him presence and gravitas. With a shock, Merlin realises that Arthur has wrinkles about his brow; they lend him an air of authority and wisdom.

At that moment, he knows he will return to Camelot, he will do anything for this man whose face has haunted him through his dreams, asleep and awake.

Surprised at himself, he smiles. The responding upward kink to Arthur’s lips fills him with warmth.

~

_Whatever Merlin is, in this matter he is just a man._

_As Arthur relaxes and returns to himself, he feels the smooth glide of skin over skin, and realises that Merlin is now naked, lined up against Arthur back. Warm gusts of breath caress Arthur’s neck. But that’s not all that Arthur can feel. Merlin’s movements have become more urgent, more decisive, somehow, and  Merlin’s hard, leaking cock is sliding along the deep crack between Arthur’s thick thighs. And that’s when a single finger breaches him, rough and insistent against Arthur’s clench._

_With an involuntary yelp, Arthur tightens around it._

_“Relax, Arthur.”_

_The weight along his back shifts a little, and he feels his hips being lifted, gently, exposing him. Goosebumps pebble his arms, and he shivers, feeling more vulnerable than he’s ever been, but also somehow exhilarated, filled with anticipation. Merlin’s mouth moves away, tongue trailing down, down towards Arthur’s tailbone, hot and cold by turns, and inexorably further. He gasps when something soft, wet and insistent laps at him then plunges after the finger that’s still crooking inside._

_“Merlin? Is that… are you…?”_

_When Merlin lets out a deep, breathy moan, Arthur feels the vibrations rumbling against his bare arse and balls, making him gasp. Fingers and tongue work their way in deeper. Arthur thinks the sensation will make his spine melt, and he arches it in pleasure. Distantly he’s aware of his own cock, already swelling from the soothing, tender massage, beginning to grow heavy and hard._

_“Fuck,” he whispers. It feels like heaven, what Merlin’s doing with his lips and his tongue. If this is dying, he doesn’t know why people are so afraid of it. “Gods!”  Cradling his head with one arm, he curls the fingers of his other hand around his aching cock, pulling back his foreskin. Gently, he swirls his thumb over the moisture that has gathered at its tip._

_“Arthur!” Merlin’s voice is thick and hoarse. “Arthur, I can’t… I need to… Gods, Arthur! Look at you!”_

_“Aye, Merlin, now, I am ready,” says Arthur, because, in truth, he wants this now, he wants it more than he has ever realised._

_His only warning is the hitch in Merlin’s breath, before he feels a blunt, moist tip nuzzling at him. There’s a second of apprehension, and then Merlin pushes past his resistance, spreading him wide. The stretch makes him gasp, the intrusion still shocking._

_Merlin stills, one hand splayed across Arthur’s buttock as he presses deeper inside, so deep that Arthur feels split in two, full beyond imagining, filled with Beltane dew, with Merlin’s spit, and his cock, and his love. Finding, with surprise, that there’s a sudden inexplicable rightness to it, this is where Merlin belongs, this is the manifestation of Merlin’s deep devotion, Arthur realises that he returns it with all his heart. He wants to tell Merlin, tell Merlin it’s all right, that he understands, now, but he can’t, because that would make sending him away even more impossible._

_“Move, Merlin, damn you,” he says, instead, turning his head into the bedcovers to hide the treacherous tears._

_With a bitten-off sound, as if choking off a reply, Merlin moves, his body a furnace along Arthur’s back, hands branding his hips and thighs. Sparks ignite along Arthur’s limbs. Dimly he finds himself wondering whether it’s Merlin’s magick that makes his nerve endings erupt in a mounting ecstasy of longing, or whether it’s Arthur’s own awakened emotions._

_With Merlin above, around and inside him, and his own hand wrapped around himself for comfort, Arthur closes his eyes._

_~_

Their gazes lock.

“I’m sorry, too,” says Merlin, quietly. “Sorry that I had to… I’d always wanted to, Arthur. You should know that. For the longest time. But not like that.”

Even without the way that Merlin’s face darkens, as if in shame, Arthur cannot pretend that he does not know what Merlin means. He vividly remembers how, that fateful morning, Merlin confessed his magick and devotion to Arthur, in one single breath. In the long days and nights since Merlin left, he has pondered those words, turning them over and over like a familiar object, tracing their beloved lines, and finding that they still have the power to move him.

“I know,” he says, realising that their hands are still clasped tightly together in fervent contact, but making no move to break them apart. “I lost you too fast, Merlin. My hand was forced. I had no time to absorb what you said, to understand how it made me feel. You should know that—”

Merlin’s weight shifts in his chair and his gaze drops to their knotted hands. “Sire! I—”

“Let me speak.” Struggling to draw the scattered strands of his thoughts together, Arthur chooses his words carefully. “It was not unwelcome. I was glad it was you. You should know that.”

Merlin looks up, a puzzled line between his brows. “I don’t understand.” He’s breathing heavily, now, Arthur can see his chest heave and his eyes glitter. “You seemed as if you would gladly choose death, rather than let me… I thought… it seemed as though… your duty to Camelot… I just wanted to take care of you, Arthur….”

Merlin’s not making much sense, but Arthur sees through the stumbling words, to the naked, bleeding wound that lies beneath, and wants nothing more than to heal it.

“You took great care of me, Merlin,” says Arthur, softly. “You always have. With your wisdom, with your magick, and with your touch. I would have you do so again.” The words felt heavy, leaving his mouth, but it seems from the way that Merlin’s face brightens that their touch is light, a gentle caress. Emboldened, Arthur continues. “I ardently wish it.” Standing, he leans forward, touching his lips to Merlin’s forehead, grazing across the hot, rumpled skin, stealing a taste of salt. “I knew it then, and I know it still. You are mine, Merlin, and you belong by my side. At my right hand, in council, if you wish it. Watching over me, in battle, if you can. In my bed, if you will. Please, Merlin.”

When Merlin looks at him like that, in unguarded joy and wonder, as if Arthur holds the keys to the kingdom of heaven, it feels as if he, Arthur, is the one whose fingers thrum with magick.

~

_A strange peace settles over them. On his side, Merlin slumped and snoring against his back, Arthur feels warm and content. The curtain billows into the room from the open window; outside, the muffled hub-bub of the citadel signifies business as usual. Above everything is the sweet scent of lavender, mixed with a faint, lingering aroma of desire and animal lust_

_But this is no ordinary morning. Arthur sighs, and stretches. His limbs feel fresh, and the vice-like squeeze has lifted from his head. There’s a tight moistness between his legs, but otherwise he feels as he would after a good night’s rest. Cautiously, he rises from the bed, placing the coverlet gently over Merlin’s shoulder, so that only a dishevelled mop of black hair protrudes, and walks, barefoot, around the bed to test his new-found strength._

_When Merlin’s eyes flutter sleepily open, he meets Arthur’s gaze with an unguarded, adoring smile._

_“Sire! You’re up! How are you feeling?” he says, rising onto his elbow. The covers slip from him, revealing a pale torso, sprinkled with fine black hair._

_“I feel myself, again,” A great, blissful wave of tenderness washes over Arthur. “Thank you.” He can’t tell if it’s Merlin’s magick or his own soft heart that makes him feel like this, makes him feel cherished, not for what he represents and what he can do, but for him alone, for the man, for Arthur._

_Remembering himself, Arthur schools his features into a frown, ignoring the way his throat tightens. W_ _hen Merlin’s smile fades, it's as if all colour is extinguished and replaced with shades of grey._

 _"Merlin, you have to flee!" Arthur says, urgently, but it seems he is too late, for  he can hear_ _heavy footsteps marching, in time, along the corridor outside his chambers, and coming to an abrupt, clattering halt outside._

_Before either of them have time to react, the doors burst open, and Uther himself strides into the room, slamming the door to preserve Arthur's modesty, before casting aside the bedcovers and dragging Merlin to the ground._

_“What is this?" Uther frowns. "Arthur, are you healed? Where is the sorcerer? Merlin, cover yourself.”_

_“I am the sorcerer,” says Merlin, defiantly, even as he drags on his breeches. “And Arthur is healed."_

_Arthur groans. Has the idiot no sense of self preservation?_

_"Is this true, Arthur?"_

_“Aye, I am healed, Father,” says Arthur, clenching his jaw so hard he tastes blood, and willing Merlin to do anything, anything to escape. He is the most powerful sorcerer in the land! Surely Uther’s guards are no match for his magick?_

_Uther's features contort into a familiar mask of hatred and disgust. “The boy? Your manservant? We have been harbouring a sorcerer all this time? Dear gods, does he have us all bewitched? Who knows what manner of enchantments he has  used against us!"_

_"Sire, I swear I have never used my magick against you or against Camelot," says Merlin, his eyes huge in the dim light that filters through the window. "Only ever to protect Arthur."_

_"Silence, traitor!" The heavy crunch of Uther's gloved hand against Merlin's jaw makes Arthur flinch, but although Merlin stumbles he does not cry out. "If I find any evidence that you have enchanted Arthur, you will suffer. T_ _he gods we have found you before you could commit any further crimes.” Grabbing and lifting_ _Merlin’s chin with one hand, Uther lowers his voice to a growl, full of fury and loathing. “You will burn for this, sorcerer. Tomorrow."_

 

_Shoving Merlin, sprawling, onto the floor, he straightens to bark through the closed door. “Guards? Sieze the traitor, Merlin.”_

_Two guards burst in. They grab Merlin’s arms, tugging him to his feet, and he slumps between them, head dangling low as if  in defeat._

_Merlin is not normally one to remain quiet in the face of perceived injustice. Many’s the time he has risked the stocks, or the dungeons, for defending a hapless peasant, accused of making love potions, or a knight indicted for using a protective ward for his armour. He has nothing to lose today, surely. Arthur expects at the very least a defiant outburst, objecting to Uther’s uncompromising stance on magick, but instead Merlin remains limp, hanging between the guards like a rag doll._

_Arthur wills him to fight, to let his eyes flash gold, to scatter the guards and vanish through the open window in the guise of a dragon, anything to prevent himself from burning. He wants to yell at him, “Save yourself, Merlin!” but knows he cannot, for Uther would only take it out on Merlin, with some other unimaginable punishment, if he thinks Arthur is enchanted by him. His very chest constricts with the pressure of not screaming._

_The soft-hearted idiot seems determined to submit to his fate. But Arthur pictures Merlin’s face, contorted with agony in the flames, and knows that Merlin can not be allowed to die. Arthur cannot let him burn. He cannot. Merlin must be forced to save himself._

_“Wait,” Arthur says, suddenly knowing what he has to do._

_Uther turns to him. “What is it, Arthur?” His voice sounds impatient._

_“I would have them seize… seize the renegade Gaius, also. He has been harbouring Merlin all this time. He must have known the identity of Emrys. I would have him cast into the dungeon.”_

_Merlin's head lifts at last. He stares at Arthur, mouth open in shock, his expression so accusing that Arthur has to look away._

_"I see, Arthur,” Uther says, his voice suddenly gentle. “It will be done. And then none will know of the precise nature of this… healing spell… none save you and I.”_

_Realising that his father thinks him ashamed, Arthur bows his head to hide his triumph. Because Arthur has been gauging Merlin’s reaction to his denunciation of Gaius, and Merlin is furious. The passive acceptance and submission that sat so ill on him have been replaced by an attitude of betrayal and outrage. Merlin will fight, and that’s all Arthur cares about._

_“Have the pyre built. I want both of them executed at noon tomorrow,” says Uther, implacable, striding out of the door._

_“You can’t!” Merlin gasps out, finally struggling against the guards dragging him from the room, his feet scrabbling for purchase. “Gaius is… you can’t!”_

_Merlin will let no harm come to Gaius. Arthur is sure of that._

_But it isn’t until darkness falls, and the alarm bells sound, that he allows himself a small, ironic smile._

_“Escape!” yell the guards, between the grim tolls of the bells. “Escape! The prisoners have escaped!”_

~

In that moment, when it seems that Merlin is on the cusp of a decision, Arthur realises that it’s Merlin’s magick he can feel, caressing his skin, smoothing him, warming him, like the glow of Merlin’s gaze, and he wonders how he could have lived so long without its vital charge.

A sudden muffled shout sounds out from beyond the tavern door, followed swiftly by a heavy thud against it.

“Sire!” Elyan’s voice is urgent, as he rattles at the door handle, still enchanted shut. “Sire, we are under attack!”

Surging to his feet, heart thudding wildly, Arthur casts about for his sword and knife. “Well, Merlin?” he cries. “Are you with us or no? Choose quickly! For I fear the time for talk has past!”

The determined expression that steals across Merlin’s features takes the chill away from Arthur’s cold, lonely bones. “I’ll be right by your side, Sire, where I belong,” he says.

“Idiot,” says Arthur, with enormous relief.

The warmth in Merlin’s eyes is enough to melt the winter snows, and soften the heart of the sternest of kings. “There’s no need to be a prat about it,” he says, grinning like a loon.

With an answering smile, Arthur draws his sword. “Come, then!” he yells. “For Camelot!”

“For Camelot!” replies Merlin, face alight with joy.

They burst through the door, blinking into the sparkling daylight.

 

_~The End~_

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Patrick Rothfuss's "The Name of the Wind" - only inasmuch as a protagonist runs an inn, and does not wish to be found.


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